


Aspirations

by Harukami



Series: Theoretical Considerations of the Human Will on the Huphantike, the Labyrinth of Fortune, and the Patterns of Past and Future [3]
Category: Doctrine of Labyrinths - Sarah Monette
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-04
Updated: 2016-02-04
Packaged: 2018-05-18 03:58:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5897398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harukami/pseuds/Harukami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The past won't let go of either Shannon Teverius or Vincent Demabrien, and outside expectations weigh down them both. But dealing with that might be better together than apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aspirations

Vincent Demabrien stared down at the letter held carefully in his hand—it wouldn't do to crinkle it more than had already occurred from the long distance it had traveled—and tried to will himself to knock on Lord Shannon Teverius's door.

There were a number of things making him reluctant to proceed. They both liked each other, and the affection he'd received had always seemed genuine. But it was already late enough on the afternoon to edge on the inappropriate for a visit when not invited, even if sent as a messenger, and there was no guarantee Shannon would be alone nor welcoming an interruption. And from the look on Mehitabel's face when she'd sent him, the letter would likely raise emotions in Shannon that Vincent wasn't sure he wished to be the one to deal with.

And besides, the Teverius rooms were reputed to be the most haunted. The Teverii didn't spread the rumors, but that didn't make it less likely. They just needed to uphold the belief that ghosts didn't exist.

Regardless, he was out of options. He could hardly just return to Mehitabel and admit that he was emotionally unable to deliver her mail. He sighed and knocked.

It was answered a moment later by Shannon's primary manservant, Jasper Plamondon, whose name Vincent knew only from overhearing it as Shannon had not once thought to introduce him. "Messire Demabrien," Plamondon said. "Can I help you?"

Vincent lifted his chin slightly. "Good afternoon," he said. "I come bearing a letter for Lord Shannon—" 

"Jasper, is that Vincent? Don't leave him standing at the door, man, show him in."

Plamondon's lips twitched up in a dry half-smile and he stepped aside, holding the door for Vincent. "It seems my Lord would like you to deliver the letter himself." 

"Thank you," Vincent said, only resenting the exchange a little. He stepped past, entering the suite and trying to ignore the sense of chill and sudden watchfulness from the corner of Shannon's sitting room.

Of course. As expected, and common enough in half the rooms in this place.

Shannon was sitting by the fire reading, but he sat up with a dazzling smile as Vincent entered. "What brings you here, Vincent? Did Mehitabel have some business or is this a personal visit?" He folded his book and dropped it carelessly on a table; Vincent's eyes flicked to it: _The Betrayal of Duke Nemetorius_ , a rather popular, if old-fashioned, play.

"More the former than the latter," he said after a long moment, embarrassed by the intensity of Shannon's blue eyes. "Mehitabel received a letter today and there was a missive for you enclosed in it."

Shannon's expression grew puzzled, then concerned. "Let me see—here, sit." He gestured vaguely to the other chair, and Vincent took it as he passed the folded letter over. He sat stiffly on the edge and tried to ignore the sensation from directly behind him that he was being watched. 

It was clear that Shannon recognized the author just by the handwriting on the outside. He made a small noise in his throat, going white, and grasped the letter with both hands without opening it. Vincent thought he might be shaking slightly.

"Jasper?" Shannon said, abruptly.

"My lord?"

"Thank you for bringing me my tea. Please show yourself out." Vincent started to rise as well. "Not you, I might need to send a note back to Mehitabel."

Plamondon gave Vincent an inscrutable look, which Vincent tried to return as he sat again. His heart was sinking. Whether Shannon intended it or not, rumors that the two of them had been intimate would certainly be spread among all the servants by morning, if not among the lords as well. One did not leave oneself in one's room with a prostitute—former or not—without the probabilities making the rounds. 

He wished he could call Plamondon back, but he'd been dismissed by Shannon, and Shannon was already absorbed in his letter. Vincent sat quietly instead, making himself a little miserable and knowing it.

Shannon was silent for a long, long few moments—unlike Mehitabel, Vincent hadn't _read_ the letter, but when she'd done so, he had seen how short it was, just a few small sentences scrawled on the parchment. There was no chance that Shannon was still reading it; rather, it seemed like he was reading it over and over again.

Just as it reached the point where Vincent was trying to decide if he should interrupt in some way, Shannon sighed.

"My lord?" Vincent ventured.

"It seems Felix is forgiving me my mistakes," Shannon said finally. "And apologizing for his."

"Ah," Vincent said.

Shannon stared at the paper a moment longer, then looked up at Vincent. His eyes were wet, Vincent noticed with horrified sympathy. "I truly didn't think he'd still be alive," Shannon said. "Let alone that he'd... that he'd bother to let me hear from him." His voice was trembling, but he jerked his chin up like he could dismiss his tears through stubbornness alone.

Vincent gave him a pained smile. "I know the feeling," he said.

"That's... that's right, isn't it," Shannon said. "You knew him when you were both...?"

"When we were younger," Vincent said. He folded his fingers together to keep himself from fiddling with anything and raised his own chin. "In the brothel."

Felix had been a forbidden subject between them, or at least, neither of them had been ever willing to bring him up first. Vincent knew that Shannon and Felix had dated for a good five years before a messy dissolution of their relationship, and he knew, too, that Shannon had clearly seen their reunion at court. Everyone at court had known their shared history as Lower City whores; Felix hadn't tried to hide that connection; Felix had, in fact, avoided further rumors only through being open about it. 

Shannon had always been careful to get to know Vincent on his own merits, as Mehitabel's friend and a fellow lover of theatre. Vincent was grateful for it, though he'd always known that eventually the silence would break and Felix would come up and his own recent past with it.

And now Shannon's lips were wobbling as well as he attempted a smile. "Had he always been so damnably stubborn?"

Amazing that _Felix_ managed to be the safer of the two possible subjects. "Always," Vincent said dryly. "We never had much room for pride at the Shining Tiger, but he managed somehow."

Slowly, Shannon refolded the letter, and ran the heel of his hand over one eye. "I'm so very sorry," he said. "I didn't expect to get so emotional about this. Just, you know, it was a big shock to receive out of nowhere. Especially, I mean, he snubbed me when he left. And..."

"I would imagine," Vincent said slowly, trying to find the right answer, whatever would make things normal between them again, "that it would be impossible not to be emotional in those circumstances."

Shannon's shoulders slumped a little. Vincent couldn't tell if that were a good thing or a bad one, if he'd picked the right answer or the wrong one. "Yes," Shannon said eventually. "You know, I used to like that about him."

It took Vincent a moment to find his way back. "His stubbornness?"

"His stubbornness, his pride. That was before it was turned on me." He twisted his lips. "Before I turned it on him, more accurately."

Vincent desperately didn't want to know. It had nothing to do with him; meeting Felix again had been good, but exhausting. Ultimately what he'd found was that he couldn't trust Felix, could see the damage pouring from him with every word he spoke. It had been like Felix was shrouded in darkness, what he presumed was that thing that had been called _noirance_ at his trial, an inky fog that he couldn't seem to keep his head clear of. Vincent had known too well how easily it would be for their friendship to turn sour as Felix began to drag it over him as well. Better to keep him at arm's length and have some good in it still.

He had been glad Felix was alive. And had been glad, too, to have had someone who understood what it was _like_ out there in a way nobody else in the Mirador ever could. The bindings of the Shining Tiger never really left them; he could feel his history like a choke-collar around his throat and knew, from the moment their eyes met, that Felix felt the same. But it would have been so easy to hurt himself on Felix. Too easy. They were already hurting each other even with what little they'd had.

He wanted to keep that distance still even against that _memory_ of Felix, to buffer up his defenses and feel that sad willingness to let Felix exist away from himself.

And yet Shannon was still trembling, overly full with his sorrow, and it felt to Vincent like it needed to burst out or it would curdle inside him, never leave, but stain him with some of that darkness. Vincent swayed in his seat as he felt the ghost behind him move closer, and squeezed his hands on each other. 

"What was it like?" Vincent asked. "Your time with him."

Shannon looked up at him, his eyes wide and sore and Vincent could feel it start to swell in him, ready to burst. "Oh," Shannon said, weakly. "You want to know?"

"It seems as though you've been keeping it inside," Vincent said, the only honest answer he could find.

For a moment he thought Shannon wouldn't say anything. But then he bowed his head, quiet. 

"I was fifteen when I met him..." 

***

Shannon talked his voice hoarse and only realized how late it had gotten when the clock chimed. He jerked his head up suddenly; he'd been dominating the conversation that entire time, he thought, horrified. "Oh—honestly, Vincent, you could have stopped me!"

 

Vincent had been listening quietly, his strange, pale eyes fixed somewhere about Shannon's chin, but he startled at Shannon's sudden movement. "You didn't seem to need to be stopped," Vincent said finally.

"No, I... I suppose not," Shannon admitted, flustered; it was _true_ , but that didn't make it _polite_. "I do feel better for it."

With an awkward mouth movement, Vincent seemed to pull a smile out of somewhere. He was acting spooked, had been doing so since he'd come in, but Shannon supposed having to bring him news about Felix would do that to the best of people. "I'm glad," Vincent said.

"Still, I unburdened on you more than was your share, I think," Shannon said. It felt like the last two hours were catching up to him, as though he'd filled the room with words and hadn't realized how much betrayal, how much sadness, how much _guilt_ had been in them until he found himself drowning in the depth of it. "I can only thank you for your tolerance. You seem a little upset."

"Oh, it's not..." Vincent seemed to cringe, his lovely, tired face screwing up slightly. "It's not you."

"Your own memories of Felix?" Shannon ventured, feeling even more like a heel. He knew damn well that Vincent and Felix shared plenty of time together, had become friends again when Lord Ivo brought Vincent to the Mirador—that Vincent would have lost Felix again, much more than Shannon ever had, when Felix was banished.

Vincent shook his head, briefly. "I hardly... I hardly had the relationship with him that you did. I avoided it, honestly." He rubbed his thumb at the edge of one of his hands, like he was trying to chafe feeling into it. "No, it's—" and for a moment he seemed on the verge of explaining, and then his gaze dropped entirely. "It's nothing."

Shannon drew a slow breath in and let it out, equally slow. "If you want me to leave it at that, I will," he said, firmly. "But whatever it is, I won't make fun of you for it. I promise. I already owe you ten times that for the amount of rubbish you've just listened to me spout, and I know _you_ won't be going off and telling anyone stories. All right?" He tried to will trustworthiness into his voice, found it a rather rusty experience.

He was still fairly certain the problem was Felix, whether or not Vincent denied it; Vincent had gone even paler, even more awkward as Shannon had gone on and on. Shannon had only to compare what he'd seen at the start to what he was seeing now to know that much, even if he'd been oblivious to its progress. 

But Vincent finally nodded and said, very awkwardly, "Did you know this room is haunted?"

Shannon blinked.

"Yes," he said automatically, as his mind stumbled over its expectations and tried to make sense of what he'd gotten instead. "Of course. There's a story for almost every room in the Mirador, and of course I know mine. A prince murdered for the succession some three hundred years back, I think, but—" 

"Ah," Vincent said, and his gaze flickered to the side.

"Oh," Shannon said. And then, " _Oh_. You can see ghosts? Really?"

Vincent's shoulders stiffened. "I would think that you wouldn't believe in ghosts," he said, tone so guarded that Shannon felt less offended and more embarrassed that Vincent would think poorly of him.

"Don't be a fool," Shannon said, and gave him a hesitant smile to take the sting away. "When the Mirador burned a couple of years back, the necromancers' spells were no longer held back by the Cabal and there was an _uprising_ of the dead. Several of my friends died in it. I wouldn't say as much to the Curia or anything, not and deal with the entire court arguing dogma, but of course I believe in ghosts."

Vincent's lips parted in a small _o_. 

And then the meaning of that segue dawned. "Are you saying that you were listening to me all this time _while seeing ghosts_?" Shannon asked, horrified. 

Vincent ducked his head, then nodded slowly. It was a remarkably cute expression from someone his age, which seemed to be a trend with him. "I… I'm sorry. He's not very clear, but he seems angry. I believe your understanding of his story is correct."

Shannon wrinkled his nose. "Oh, fantastic. What's he angry about?"

"I think…" Another hesitation, and then Vincent glanced up again, meeting Shannon's eyes uncomfortably. "Well. You must understand he's just a pattern of the past who can react to what he sees now, but he's mad about your lack of ambition."

"Oh, well," Shannon said, biting back on the flare of irritation that washed over him and smiling brightly. Perhaps too brightly, but he couldn't control it. "He can stuff it."

Vincent flushed, then went pale. "Ah…"

Shannon had to remind himself that even if the ghost was invisible to him, Vincent was the one who'd have to deal with any repercussions of what Shannon said. "Well. I assume since I can't see him he can't do anything to me anyway. But what about you?"

"He can't do anything, whether one sees him or not," Vincent said awkwardly. "He's... gone, even though he's here. Even for me, I just… see them. Hear them. It's easier to handle if I don't pay attention to them, because focusing on them makes them more present, but… It's nothing. You don't have to worry."

"Do you think there's anything we could do for him?" Shannon asked, because it only seemed right to at least consider the option. 

Vincent shook his head. "I don't know how," he said. "I can't do it myself. Felix could, but…"

"I wouldn't be inviting Felix in here again anyway," Shannon said wryly. "Apologies or not. That's over. Well, in that case, he's waited around here for long enough, he can wait around a bit longer, can't he? Until something works out for him, or he fades out." He let out his own heavy breath. "And I'll let you go now, so you can stop seeing him."

Rising slowly, Vincent gave him a wan smile. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to… ah, well, I mean, I didn't want this, not like this. I meant to pay full attention…"

"You did—it didn't feel at all like you weren't. Really," Shannon said. He smiled, rising and starting to walk with him to the door. Vincent had been absolutely attentive, especially under the circumstances. He reached the door first and turned, not quite yet opening it and watching Vincent approach.

The way he moved, eyes downcast and with soft steps, made him ghost-like himself. The impression was made only more uncanny by his skin, perfectly clear and so white it was almost blue, only just starting to show wrinkles around the lips and under his eyes. He looked significantly less tired than he had when they'd first met, though that was easily attributable to the lack of Lord Ivo in his life now, as well as, of course, Mehitabel's charming influence. And he was so short and slim, almost unbelievably delicate, with that long, fine black hair and those strange, pale eyes. 

It made him want to touch Vincent, to see if he was real 

"Lord Shannon?" Vincent queried softly, gaze focusing on his face when he didn't open the door right away.

And now he needed to find an excuse for the delay. One came to mind at once, though, an unavoidable thought from the moment Vincent had realized his ability. "Can I ask a favour, Vincent?"

Those faint lines around Vincent's eyes deepened noticeably at that, though he kept whatever flinch was there otherwise off his features. "That depends what it is," he said cautiously.

Shannon blushed, then laughed. He should have expected that, he thought ruefully. "Fair enough," he said. "It's just that my mother's ghost is likely to be somewhere in this building. Given the circumstances that she died in, I can't imagine that some part of her wouldn't stick around."

Vincent winced a little. Shannon wasn't surprised. Everyone knew what his mother had done. "And if you see her, you want me to…?" Vincent ventured, cautious.

" _Not_ tell me whatever it is she says," Shannon said, and smiled. He could feel the hardness in it, but couldn't help it, couldn't seem to soften it for Vincent. "I don't need to hear it and I won't want anything in whatever she has to say to me. I'm not my mother's son."

Those pale eyes had widened with shock, then slowly relaxed. Vincent said, "I think I can manage that, yes."

"Thank you," Shannon said. He managed a nicer smile this time, then opened the door and held it. Vincent went through, turning to bow to him on the other side. "And next time we talk one-on-one, I'll try to make sure it's at Mehitabel's suite or yours."

Vincent opened his mouth, then closed it. For a moment, Shannon thought he was going to retort. But he just bowed again quickly and hurried off.

***

And that, Vincent had thought at the time, would be the end of it—at least for a while. He couldn't imagine Shannon wanting to speak to him about Felix again, although Vincent was sure there was unfinished business about Felix regardless; the man seemed to shed it like hairs, to turn up later on one's sleeve unexpectedly. 

They likely wouldn't meet until the next social gathering of Shannon's theatre friends, but he had plenty to do. The next few days were more than occupied as Vincent assisted Mehitabel with her part both in helping to plan Enid and Stephen's wedding, and in handling the letters from her fans as she finished up her performance.

Though that last seemed to be causing her some concern this afternoon; she was huffing loudly as she stomped back into her suite. "That pompous little—" 

"Problems?" Vincent asked. He kept his voice soft; he never needed to raise it with Mehitabel. She always attended to what he had to say regardless.

She rolled her eyes. "Drin's decided that since Stephen's marriage is so soon, I must certainly be romantically available again."

"Ah," Vincent said, sympathetic and dry. "Perhaps he's unfamiliar with what being a mistress involves? After all, I hadn't heard that marriage was likely to interfere with that particular situation."

Mehitabel let out an unladylike snort, handing her jacket off to Lenore and giving her a brief pat on the arm, both apology and thanks for her lack of acknowledgement for how she'd held the door. Lenore gave her one of her thin quick smiles back and went to hang it up. 

"Oh, I'm sure Drin's been keeping himself up at night thinking about everything that my being Stephen's mistress _involves_ ," Mehitabel continued. "But he's convinced that I should want more than being a side-lover." She slipped into a compelling imitation of Drin's villainous voice, catching up Vincent's hand with a snarl. "'If you're not good enough to marry him, you're not good enough for him at all! You should find another lover, one who would be more _decent_ about things—" 

"Goodness," Vincent said mildly, freeing his hand as if it really were her coworker holding it rather than Mehitabel herself. "The implications are quite clear."

"I can't say I was expecting to field a proposal from him again," Mehitabel sighed. " _Men._ "

Vincent nodded. "Men," he agreed, tone conspiratorial.

She sat, shaking her head. "Well, Drin's always been the ambitious sort," she said finally. She took the cup of tea that Lenore handed her. "—Thank you, dear—Always has to be the top-billed lead actor, always has to aim for the best. It probably makes no sense to him whatsoever that I wouldn't _want_ to marry Stephen. Drin's the marry-for-passion sort."

"I haven't been very familiar with that sort myself," Vincent said mildly.

"Nor I," Mehitabel said, sighing and sinking down in her chair so her neck rested against the back, cupping her tea in her hands. "So what does the mail look like today?"

"Some letters from your adoring fans to which I have been responding, and some requests for dinner. Several lords would like to meet you in the week after Stephen's marriage."

She quirked a brow without opening her eyes. "Which ones?"

"Ivings, Barbary, Simoneaux."

"Vultures," she sighed. "They'll be looking for an in with Stephen while he's too preoccupied with his new wife to notice them making connections with the mistress. I wonder if they know that he's not planning on blocking his schedule off beyond the wedding night and the one after? He's been through this dance once before, after all, he knows that plenty of people will think a new marriage is a perfect time to start prying into his business."

Vincent shook his head slowly. _Politics._ "I thought as much. Should I refuse them?"

She quirked one corner of her lips in a small smile. "Not yet. I'm over to see Stephen for dinner in an hour; I'll ask him if there's anything he wants me to get out of any of them."

"Very good." He put those to the side. "You've also a note from Shannon—from Lord Shannon."

One eye opened at that, watching him with what seemed to be a keen-eyed interest. "And?"

"And that's all. I haven't opened it yet."

"Go on, then. I've a couple minutes before I've got to get changed."

He picked up the letter and wished, perhaps, that she didn't have the time yet, or that she'd take it from him to read herself. It was a strange impulse, and one that had lead him to leave the note for last. Hard to say why, or what about his last meeting with Shannon had shaken him so much. Perhaps there had just been too much honesty in the air. He undid the seal with a quick whisk of the letter-knife and pulled the card out. "He congratulates you on another fine performance—" 

"Good God, that's right, he did come to see it again. You'd think he'd get tired of it."

"Unlikely. He also says that he has been reading The Betrayal of Duke Nemetorius and suggests that you would make an excellent Duchess Elemena. He asks that he can come over for drinks to discuss the play, regardless of whether you think you'd ever star in it."

Mehitabel sat up fully at that, quirking a brow. "Really, Elemena? Do _you_ think so, Vincent?"

"Hm..." he tilted his head up, trying to recall. "It's been quite a few years since I read it. I seem to recall that she's the sort of complicated character who you might make shine—"

She let out a soft laugh. "You'll have to refresh if it's been that long. I'll get you a copy from the theatre if you don't mind that it's somewhat dog-eared, and you can join us for drinks and discussion. Go ahead and schedule him in for the night after the wedding. At least nobody will think I'm off cheating on Stephen in revenge if I've got Shannon over."

"No, they will not," Vincent said, swallowing around a horribly embarrassing case of nerves, pulling out the writing paper. "And now you should let Lenore see to you if you want to be dressed up for the Lord Protector at all tonight."

"Let me finish my tea first, at least!" she said, laughing, but allowed him to turn back to the desk and begin composing his response.

***

In the final week leading up to the wedding, Shannon found himself excessively bored. He'd received Mehitabel's response in Vincent's neat hand, and while he understood how she might be too busy to see him before the wedding itself, it left him with little to do other than try to help his brother prepare

Stephen kept giving him strange looks for it, something Shannon didn't entirely appreciate even if he knew this kind of care was coming out of the blue to Stephen. "Well," he snapped eventually as Stephen looked down his nose at Shannon holding cuff-links to his wedding suit wrist, "I hope you don't think _Vicky_ was going to pick out your wedding jewelry."

Stephen let out a soft huff at that image. "Vicky dresses herself just fine."

"And _I_ know how to make a man look good, obviously."

That shut Stephen up, at least for a few moments. "I was just going to wear the diamonds from marrying Emily."

"I know you were," Shannon sighed, and straightened. He poked Stephen in the chest over a button. "First of all, the buttons on that suit were diamond so of course those diamonds worked. The buttons on this are gold, but I won't let you just wear plain gold with it, that'd be underselling Enid. Besides, the suit itself could use a nice blue or green to contrast it, which is why I'm waving these sapphires at you. Secondly, I have it on good authority that Enid Lemeria will be wearing sapphires herself, and you should aim to match the bride if at all possible. And finally, the papers _will_ list everything you're wearing, just as they did when you married Emily, and if you think there won't be people comparing the two and trying to make a scandal out of it if you cut corners with your new wife, you've got a nasty surprise coming."

Stephen threw up his hands. "I should clearly leave it to the fashion expert. And I suppose you bought all three trays so you could try out these options without letting rumors get out of likely stones I may be wearing."

"What, don't we have enough money for it?" Shannon asked sarcastically. 

"Don't use that voice with me, Shannon."

A sigh. "You're just the worst to work with, you know. No wonder Tabby told me to deal with you on this."

"...Did she." Stephen's tone was amazingly neutral.

"That and I suppose managing the lists and seating arrangements was about as far as you can be expected to hand things off to your mistress without it being a real scandal." Shannon lifted an eyebrow at Stephen. "Yes, all right, the faceted sapphires it is." He tapped each as he named them. "Shoe buckles and breeches' buckles, cuff-links, suit broach and decorations, and clip for your short sword. For heaven's sake, don't lose any, people will be looking to make sure you've got a full set."

"Thank you so very much for your help."

"You are so very welcome," Shannon said, in as close to the same tone as he was able to manage. He stacked the other options and pulled a bag back around them to take back to his own room, sighing.

Stephen cleared his throat. "Shannon."

The way he said his name made it absolutely clear that a conversation was being started. Shannon, who had begun to pick up the bag, set it back down. "Stephen?"

Putting both hands behind his back, Stephen assumed an attentively resting pose that was so artificial that Shannon could have laughed or cried; unable to pick which, he stayed neutral. 

Stephen asked, "Will you be bringing a date to the wedding?"

"Darling brother, I am bringing an entire honor guard to the wedding."

"You know what I mean," Stephen said.

He did know. He deflated slowly, sighing. "Of course not," he said finally, trying to scrub the bitterness from his voice. "I'm going to be up there next to you with Vicky, Stephen, like a good Teverius should, to welcome Enid Lemeria as she becomes Enid Teveria. Any date I brought would be standing behind me and inviting scrutiny on _your_ head."

"I simply... I would like you to be happy," Stephen said, awkwardly. "Scrutiny be damned. There's still time for you to invite someone, if you wish."

Surprise stole his voice away. He counted to ten in his head while he tried to calm the sudden pounding of his heart. Of course, a name came to mind, but it was impossible. Vincent would be attending as Mehitabel's date, and not only would it be rude to make Stephen's mistress stand alone at Stephen's wedding, it would invite more speculation and drama than Stephen would care to field. And taking Lord Ivo's previous catamite to Stephen's wedding, so soon after Ivo was burned for his treason _against_ Stephen, would seem like a statement—Vincent himself had been cleared of any wrongdoing, but that wouldn't matter to gossips. 

Besides, he couldn't imagine Vincent agreeing to stand up there anyway.

He dredged up a small smile. "There is one person."

"Who?" Stephen said. He met Shannon's eyes with an even gave. "Name him."

"Semper Philipson."

Stephen blinked, taken aback. "Philip's bastard? He's working with Mehitabel, isn't he?"

"That's right, at the Empyrean," Shannon said. He could see Stephen frowning at him, looking him over, calculating the age difference and the class difference—ironically, it would hardly be more of one than had been between himself and Felix. "Oh, no, I'm not in a _relationship_ with him. Not sure he's even ganumedes. I just think it's sad that Semper won't be able to stand with his family as Enid's given away. This'd solve that. From what I've heard, he and his half-sister exchange the occasional notes and get along nicely so she'll probably be tickled by it too. Besides, it'll put the wind up Philip Lemerius."

Stephen relaxed with a short laugh. "I really don't see why you dislike Philip so much."

"He disliked _me_ first," Shannon said, flipping his hair. "I didn't ask to be ganumedes, you know! Anyway, Semper will eat up any scandal he gets—he's already got his share of unfounded rumors since I dragged him into my social circle and he thinks it's good fun."

That earned him a laugh. "Reasonable enough," Stephen said. "Go ahead and send him a note." And then, awkwardly, "And, Shannon, I know you didn't. It's not... I never really..."

"Oh, never mind it, Stephen," Shannon said, abruptly embarrassed. "I was talking about Philip, not—just never mind." He picked up the bag of jewelry again. 

"Shannon."

Was Stephen going to pursue it? He kept his gaze averted. "Yes?"

"Thank you," Stephen said, tone serious. "For—for the jewels."

"Oh..." Shannon smiled a little to himself, and swung the bag onto his shoulder. "Any time, Stephen. Like you said, leave things like this to the expert."

"I'll keep that in mind," Stephen said, and was still fiddling with his cuff-links when Shannon left the room.

***

The wedding was a lavish affair, almost garishly grandiose. Vincent, seated beside Mehitabel in the main audience, felt more out of place than he ever had in his life, and his life had been a long series of events of feeling out of place.

"Oh, look," Mehitabel whispered, leaning over. "Shannon _did_ invite Semper. Semper said he had. Look at him, he's practically glowing."

"Good for him," Vincent whispered back. He didn't envy Semper in the slightest, but there was no denying that he was absolutely over the moon with this turn of events. His cheeks were bright red as he stood behind Shannon, studiously ignoring his father's stony glare. 

"We're going to get a fresh crowd over at the Empyrean," Mehitabel said, still under her breath. "Half of them will only be there to get a glimpse at who they think is Shannon's latest beau. Between me and him, we're going to be giving the Empyrean a reputation."

Vincent quirked a brow. "Is that good or bad?'

"Oh, it's good," Mehitabel assured him. "Jean-Soleil will have to turn people away at the door."

Vincent chuckled softly, letting it fade into a sigh. "Perhaps an actor can thrive on this sort of attention. I cannot imagine it."

The look she gave him was too thoughtful for its own good. "Is that so?"

How could he respond to that? He managed a vague nod, then pretended to be absorbed in the ceremony as the music dropped off again and more oaths began.

It went on and on, and even the people standing up front seemed to be getting bored of it. Everyone except Stephen and Enid, who were performing their roles admirably, standing stiffly arm in arm. Vincent caught Shannon's gaze wandering over the crowd, held it briefly, and gave him a wry smile, tapping his chest over his pocket-watch.

Shannon bit his lower lip on a smile and nodded seriously, ostensibly in response to something being said to his brother. 

Mehitabel didn't miss the byplay. She quirked an eyebrow, and Vincent was very glad that the enormous room was too quiet now for her to say anything more to him. He just shrugged one shoulder.

There was nothing that needed to be said, regardless. She knew his desire to make and keep Shannon's acquaintance; she likely had her own opinions on that. He let his mind wander a little over the concept, tuning out the meaningless vows.

Shannon was remarkably sweet and sharp-minded, given his reputation for foppery, and his love for the theatre couldn't be beaten. Vincent hadn't expected to be welcomed so easily or so openly, but Shannon had not only invited him into his social circle but done so in a way that discouraged any sort of insult to him, listening to his opinions and treating him as he did any of his friends. It was very easy to like him, and even easier to like his brilliant smile and the sparkle of his eyes. 

Vincent cut his thoughts off there before they could start to ruin his tolerably good mood and just focused on the group at the front.

When it was finally over, the new husband and wife withdrew and the rest of the guests mingled, enjoying the food and drink. Vincent was carefully piling a small amount of everything onto a plate when Shannon came up on his left side, took the drink out of his hand, downed it, and put the glass down on the table.

"I really shouldn't have worn heels today," Shannon said mournfully. "I _knew_ we'd be standing that long."

"I had wondered if you were regretting that," Vincent said. Shannon's heels weren't the most visible from where he'd been sitting, but they did seem to have a raised heel at least ten centimeters tall. 

Shannon wrinkled his nose. "My feet are killing me. At least my legs look incredible."

Vincent saw the conversational line in front of him and let it hang there untaken, keeping his eyes firmly on Shannon's face instead. "Where's your date?"

"I left Yves hanging over him breathlessly asking about how the bride looked from up there," Shannon said with a grin. "Don't worry. He's not wanting for attention."

"He never seems to be," Vincent agreed, and began to back away from the table to find somewhere to stand and eat.

Shannon followed after. "And where's yours?"

"No idea. She excused herself right after the ceremony and told me not to wait around for her," Vincent said. He saw Shannon's brows raise at that. "Will you get me another drink, since mine seems to have vanished?"

"Oh, yes, certainly," Shannon said. He turned on one of those heavy heels and pushed his way back through the crowd.

Vincent found an empty table nearby and took a seat at it, starting to eat and keeping an eye on the crowd for either Mehitabel or Shannon's return. With his attention on the crowd, he could see Shannon's guard hanging around nearby—not doing anything unusual for a wedding, drinking and eating and chatting, but their presence was undeniable. Shannon must have told them that he was going to be spending some time with Vincent _before_ going over to him.

A strange feeling began to settle into the pit of his stomach, an uneasy anxiety that made his mouth dry. When Shannon came and sat down across from him with two glasses and slid one across to him, he almost jumped, gaze focusing on Shannon's uncannily beautiful face.

He was suddenly hyper-aware of the crowd; how many people would be pretending not to be paying attention to what Shannon was doing but actually _were_ at all times. It was different for them to talk as part of a larger group; being part of Shannon's coterie put no emphasis on him at all. It was different, as well, to talk in private where no one could see. But now—

"My Lord," he murmured, suddenly miserable. "You really shouldn't. There are likely already rumors."

Shannon's brows rose. "I don't care," he said. "I always have rumors. There aren't, though. Why would there be?"

"Your servant—when I went over a few weeks ago, of course he'd talk—"

"I don't have any servants who gossip about me," Shannon said bluntly, voice low enough that only Vincent would be able to catch it before it was swallowed up in the buzz of the room. Something in his face had changed, like there was a hardness under the rosy cheeks, a dullness in his bright blue eyes. "I've spent years narrowing down my people to guarantee that. The only people who gossip about me are the court, and they won't start rumors over me sitting with someone who's already a friend. I know what catches interest and what doesn't, darling, I deliberately _start_ half the rumors going around the place."

Vincent looked down at the grasp of his fingers on the glass's flute, at his unpainted short nails, and repressed a shudder. Even if it were true that Plamondon had stayed silent, he suspected Shannon was underestimating what the court would be willing to say.

After all, Vincent wasn't like the other guests at court, and didn't have any defenses against his past. Felix had, and Shannon might be relying on that being standard, but Felix eventually made those through his own position as a powerful wizard, as the only one who had been capable of repairing the Virtu, so many other things. Vincent could practically see the web of pain unfurling under his fingertips, the half-lies that would have enough of a foothold to spread. Shannon would be easy to spin as having a fetish for snapping up prostitutes, between his life with Felix and now spending time one-on-one with Vincent. That Vincent obviously was ganumedes himself would make Shannon's interest suspect even without that.

"Honestly, Vincent, it's fine. Even if they talk, I don't care what they say," Shannon said carelessly.

Vincent shook his head, rising stiffly and taking his plate. "I'm sorry," he said. "Thank you for the drink." 

He withdrew.

He glanced back as he headed into the crowd, unable to quite resist, but despite his worries Shannon wasn't watching after him, was just sitting there, tapping his fingers next to his plate; another young man moved in and sat down across from him almost at once and Shannon's head snapped up, smiling.

The crowd closed behind Vincent.

***

Shannon woke from a nightmare—vague and hard to describe even to himself, lying in bed with his sheets sticking to his skin with sweat as he tried to calm down. The dream was already fading; all he could recall from it was a sense of bitterness and desire, wanting to both be himself and have power, to step out and be _acknowledged..._

Slowly, he sat up in the blankets and sucked in a slow breath of air. He ran shaking hands through his hair, wondering how much he'd had to drink last night, wondering what exactly had put him into such a bitter mood. The air was cold and he felt the paranoia of being watched.

Which was really the ideal time to remember that his room was haunted.

Shannon let out a breathless laugh and tried to imagine what he looked like from the outside. If there really was another person here, he wouldn't want to look unhappy; he pulled that thought around him like a coat and smirked a little at nothing at all.

"Oh, shove off," he said aloud. "You're dead, and I'm not you. I'm perfectly fine not taking or wanting anything much, thank you kindly."

He didn't really think it was the ghost making him feel this way, though. It had been a nightmare brought on by the wedding, nothing more. Too many drinks and the constant awareness of eyes on him all evening waiting for him to do _something_ , to try to wrest power away from his brother, anything. He'd hoped to have some fun during it, but hadn't been able to let go. He'd had no choice but to perform ineffectiveness instead, to take his genuine lack of desire for that power and turn it into stupidity, because nobody would think he was smart and still unambitious. That frustration had built up before he went to bed, and left him in a perfect state for unpleasant dreams.

It didn't matter, regardless of the cause. The feeling was gone, leaving him feeling rather idiotic and relieved at the same time for snapping at the air.

He spent the morning out shopping and socializing, dragging his guard captain, Casimir, along with him to carry his things, making his presence felt while he was out and about doing nothing of value whatsoever. It felt like a defensive display, as though by making himself louder and brighter and prettier, predators would steer clear. The thought made him laugh under his breath and smile more dazzlingly at the other patrons in the hat shop.

He bought surprisingly little while he was out: a small gift for Mehitabel, a hatpin for himself and a new vest. He thought about bringing something along for Vincent as well, but decided against it, since Vincent likely wouldn't want to accept any gift that he could later be seen with, not when Shannon had been seen buying it. Vincent had made his own discomfort with being caught alone with Shannon perfectly clear, even if his reasons for it were meaningless. 

Shannon had already weathered the storm of ridicule for having dated a prostitute; had tried to get that ex-prostitute _back_. He couldn't imagine anything anyone would say that could still bother him. "Nice if he would believe that, though."

"My lord?"

"Nothing," he said, turning his most dazzling smile on Casimir, and was gratified to see the man turn red.

It at least kept him occupied almost to dinner, and he reread some of Elemena's scenes until six-thirty chimed, before dressing for drinks, redoing his hair, and heading down to Mehitabel's suite.

Lenore let him in, and Mehitabel lifted a hand from her seat. "Shannon, good to see you. What's this I hear about you picking the Empyrean's next play?"

Her tone was too light to actually be chiding, so he grinned at her. "I wouldn't go that far," he protested innocently, and walked over, holding out a box to her. "A bribe for that goal, though."

She took it with a dimpling smile. "And what's this, then?" she asked, and cracked it open, taking one of the earrings inside out between two fingers and turning it this way and that to catch the light, a twinkling inverse rose in a cage. "Oh, Shannon, it's lovely. You shouldn't have."

"I'm the only man other than my brother who can get away with giving you jewelry right now, so I'll take advantage of that honor," he said, and turned to the other seats around the fire. 

He hadn't really expected to see Vincent in one, almost dwarfed by the grand armchair, but he had _hoped_ to see him and felt his heart do some strange gymnastics in his chest at the sight of him sitting there, quiet and pale. At least he'd already been smiling; it wasn't too strange or sudden to turn that smile on Vincent.

Though hard not to make it brighter when Vincent smiled _back_.

Shannon took the third seat, angled to partially face the other two, and sprawled back. "At any rate, I've just been reading _Nemetorius_ and couldn't stop thinking of you throughout it. Besides, with politics the way they are lately, I think it might be well to pull out a message like _Nemetorius_ and then show up to applaud it."

Mehitabel tilted her head back with a laugh. "Is _that_ why?"

"A part of it only!" Shannon said. "No pressure, honest. I'm sure the company's leader already has a schedule in mind."

"Please, you're doing Jean-Soleil too much credit. We don't plan the next one until we see how the current one's doing and what our rivals are performing."

Vincent said, in his soft voice, "I do think you'd make a lovely Elemena. The scene where she realizes what her husband is doing could be chilling in the right hands, and the decision between supporting the man she loves in his ambition to gain the throne, and following her loyalty to the king and the country's stability... I agree that you could manage it."

Shannon couldn't keep himself from turning that bright smile back on Vincent. "I completely agree," he said. "I read that scene over and over before I came and historically, that's the scene that makes or breaks the play, isn't it? If the actress doesn't sell Elemena's love for Nemetorius, then there's no conflict, but if she fails to express how loyal she is, how devoted to her third cousin and what he has done for the country, then her decision doesn't work."

"And that's exactly why Elemena is often the least popular character," Mehitabel pointed out dryly, though her cheeks were a little red. "The audience is rooting for Nemetorius; he's the title of the damned play. Sure, he's betraying the king to try to seize power, but he's positioned as the main character. People want to see him succeed or fail under his own power, so Elemena steps out against the audience."

"What if," Shannon began, but he didn't have a chance to finish.

"She could be the protagonist," Vincent said. "In fact, I think she was meant to be the protagonist. She's in so many of the key scenes. The plot action hinges on her choices. She has the final scene, bowing to the king and then taking her husband's ashes and mourning them. Nemetorius is generally positioned as the protagonist in performances, and Elemena as a framing device. But I don't think that she's meant to be."

Shannon pointed to him; couldn't help it, didn't care it was rude. He jabbed a finger two or three times in Vincent's direction. "Yes! Precisely what he said. Exactly my thought. Elemena needs to be the protagonist."

"It'd be interesting staging," Mehitabel admitted. "I think it'd be doable, although we'd be fighting against the audience's expectations. Put her front and center when she and Nemetorius are talking, and him off to the side. Direct attention toward her..."

"Do that and then that deciding scene has power. The power it has to have for the plot to work properly, but what's usually worked against," Shannon said.

Mehitabel nodded, then leaned forward. She swept a copy of the script off the table and tossed it at Shannon; he caught it with only a minor fumble. "Assuming I went to Jean-Soleil with this idea," she said, "he'll immediately bring up act two scene two as a weak part that shows that Elemena's meant only to be a dupe. I've been debating that scene with Vincent for the last hour. What do you think about her starting to get suspicious then?"

Shannon held the script between two hands and found himself almost glowing as the two of them looked at him, as he started to flip it to II.ii. "Well, I think it depends on the emphasis in this line, doesn't it? 'My lord, if _you_ will it', would read very differently from 'My lord, if you _will_ it'..."

***

They drank and discussed and debated until they fell off into laughter and gossip, personal stories told, that altercation Shannon saw around her dressing room leading to talking about this awful fop who wouldn't leave him alone at the wedding and when the clock chimed ten, Mehitabel sighed.

"Well, it's been lovely, but it's gotten late enough that even _you_ might start a scandal about me," she said, smiling at Shannon. And then: "Vincent, walk Lord Shannon back to his rooms, will you?"

Vincent felt his cheeks, already flushed, turn more scarlet. "Ah... of course." He got up quickly, awkwardly.

Shannon raised a hand, half-protest. "Much as I'd love the company, I'll hardly get lost."

"I wouldn't like to send you through even the Mirador by yourself this late at night," Mehitabel said. "Besides, you're more than a little drunk."

"Only a little," Shannon protested. He gave Vincent a smile. "I'd love the company, but then it'd be _Vincent_ walking back alone and drunk."

"Less drunk," Vincent said. "And it's hardly the same thing as you walking around alone. I'm only a servant."

As if Shannon had only been waiting for Vincent to agree, he let his protests fall. "Very well. Then if you will, Vincent, let's head out."

Vincent inclined his head, feeling his cheeks heat and wishing to the ends of the earth that they would stop betraying him in that way. The obvious protest to _him_ walking back alone had clearly occurred to both Shannon and Mehitabel: Vincent could, of course, stay the night. He'd seen it on both their faces, and seen, too, that they'd chosen not to voice it.

He wondered, with a sensation like turning a knife inward on his chest, if he were always this obvious. Mehitabel knew he liked Shannon. _Shannon_ knew he liked Shannon.

But they wouldn't understand.

He didn't want to stay the night. He didn't want to end up in Shannon's bed. He could imagine all too easily what sex would be like—himself, against his own distant interests, made to submit. Lying there detached. Or he could be honest to Shannon about the only sex he felt even _capable_ of engaging in, and drive Shannon away. But even imagining either option, as paltry as they were, didn't make him want it more. He didn't want to have sex. He didn't want to touch another person. He didn't want the sweat, the scent of semen, the shortness of breath. He didn't want orgasm, not at all lately, and certainly not with another person involved.

He'd been having so much unwanted sex for so long, so much sex that he could only even properly engage in if he fell into his narrow specialty by tarquinning the other. The idea of doing it now when he didn't _have_ to was terrible. Disgusting. It felt like he'd be happier just taking himself to the sanguinette.

"Vincent, if I may, you're being awfully quiet," Shannon said.

Vincent snapped back to himself; they'd already gotten a few halls away, though not yet near Shannon's suite. "I'm sorry," he said. "Lost in thought."

Shannon gave him a little smile to the side that looked so genuine that Vincent only felt guiltier for realizing what they'd figured out about his feelings. "Well, you're permitted."

"It was very rude of me," Vincent said. "I enjoyed this evening."

He had thought that the change of subject would be the right choice, but hadn't really expected the response, the way Shannon seemed to light up. "I'm glad you were there," he said. "I was hoping you might be! You always have perfect contributions to these kinds of discussions, and I knew you'd have more to say about Elemena than I'd be able to put into words. The play seemed really fresh in your mind, did you perhaps reread it to prepare?"

No point hiding it. "I did," Vincent said. "Tabby loaned me a copy. Before that it had been quite a few years." It was an invitation, almost an apology.

After a brief hesitation, Shannon took the offer implicit in it to ask him more: "Has the theatre always been an interest of yours?"

"Since childhood, yet. That and novels," Vincent said. He smiled a little dryly. "Which may surprise you, given my background—"

"Well, I obviously know that you can read and write _now_ —" Shannon interrupted, red-cheeked. 

"Ah. Just so. My father was a scrivener," Vincent said mildly. "He passed when I was twelve, so I'd had more of an early education than most of my peers."

Shannon's cheeks were still quite red, and he wasn't looking aside at Vincent. "I hardly thought too much about it. Felix could read and write like anyone, but—"

"Felix's patroned situation is its own circumstance and I'm sure you thought of it, denials aside. No, I'm grateful, my lord," Vincent said. "You do treat me on my own merits."

"I'd like to remember to do so for everyone," Shannon said a little stiffly. "But I hope that you do know I think of you as a friend. I don't question any of your interests or abilities, not to myself and not aloud. I've—made it a policy to believe in what I see in front of me."

There was something in there Vincent could sense, some old hurt, but they'd reached Shannon's door. He hesitated in front of it, trying to decide if he should pursue it and risk opening further vulnerabilities. "I appreciate that," he said, after a long moment of them both just watching the other. "I'd enjoy talking with you some old favorite books, sometime, if they're as much interest to _you_ as the theatre is."

"Less so," Shannon said, and seemed to dredge up a smile. "I'm not much of a novel-reader. But I'll take recommendations from you and give it a try."

"Goodness. I'll have to think of something proper, in that case."

"Just be honest. An old favorite," Shannon said. He hesitated. "Well, I won't invite you inside, not with the ghost there, but thank you for walking me home. I can send Jasper back with you if you _do_ have any concerns."

This time, Vincent managed to keep his cheeks cool. It felt like an achievement. "I don't," he said.

"Then I'll hopefully talk to you soon," Shannon said. And then, rushing into it: "I've wrung everything I could out of _Nemetorius_ and would love new reading material, after all. Please do recommend me something. I mean that." 

There were no end of plays he could read next. Vincent didn't say as much, just inclined his head. "I'll be in touch," he promised.

***

Vincent might have made him a promise, but Shannon tried not to hope that anything would come of it—at least not quickly. It had become clear at the wedding that even if Vincent wanted to foster their friendship, he had a very strong idea of what situations they should be allowed to talk in, and that they involved other people around.

So he was completely not expecting, a mere two weeks later, to receive a small note in Vincent's tidy writing inviting him to Vincent's room:

_I've picked a book I used to enjoy quite a bit. If you're still inclined, you're welcome to come over tonight and borrow it._

Shannon held the note and read it three or four times. "Jasper?"

"Yes, Lord Shannon?"

"Did he wait around for a response?"

"He did not," Jasper said, with a hint of amusement on his face. "One can only assume that he'll simply see if you show up or not."

Shannon nodded, then beckoned. Obligingly, Jasper knelt down next to his chair, brows raised. "Jasper," Shannon said. "Did he look, you know, nervous?"

"Absolutely," Jasper said. "One might even assume he forgot he _could_ wait around for a response, or that he could have talked to you right now."

"Or he could have brought me the book," Shannon said. "Right to my door."

Jasper grinned slightly. "I'm sure he wants to _talk_ about it with you. In the evening. In his room."

Shannon gave his shoulder a swat. "Jasper! It's not like that between us, you know, he's very proper and all that," but he was grinning too, a little red-cheeked.

"Oh, my pardon," Jasper said, putting a hand over his heart with an innocent air. "I hardly meant to imply anything."

"See that you don't," Shannon said with a mock primness that failed to hit its mark, since he hadn't managed to subdue his grin.

As the afternoon went on, his pleasure turned into a strange sort of anxiety, a _will he or won't he_ that Shannon couldn't decide how he felt about. Was this a come-on, an invitation, like Jasper had implied? Or was it no more or less what the note had said? He found himself checking himself in the mirror for the thirtieth time, brushing his hair to the side so it fell just so, examining himself for any blemishes. It was probably nothing but what was written, he reminded himself. Vincent was straightforward like that.

That he was pretty sure that Vincent was interested in him didn't mean he'd act on it. But what if. He couldn't stop thinking that: What _if_.

By the time that he should actually head over, he'd worked himself up to the point of self-mocking apathy. It didn't _matter_ which it was; he'd spent so long thinking about it he thought he was prepared for _anything_. Whatever happened would be what Vincent wanted to happen, and maybe, he thought, it was about time that his relationships moved at someone else's pace.

And despite _that_ , his heart was pounding too fast as he told Jasper to wait down the hall and knocked on Vincent's door.

It opened nearly at once, and Shannon saw that Vincent was dressed quite neatly, cleaned up after work for visitors: his hair braided back and scented, his collar stiff. They stared at each other for a brief second, as if neither could really believe the other was there, and then Vincent stood to one side. 

"Do come in," he said. "I thought, well, that perhaps I should explain my choice, and if I were inviting you over, we may as well have drinks—"

"That sounds lovely," Shannon said, wondering if he'd gone pink, and stepped in.

Vincent shut the door behind him, and Shannon took stock of the room quickly, trying to judge if anything were a giveaway as to what was to be expected of the evening. It was a single small room rather than the suites he was used to, but that was to be expected in the servants' quarters. It had a bed and two chairs, a desk, a stove-top heater, and a dresser. Several books were stacked on the desk, but beyond that, it showed no sign of personalization. The room was likely exactly as it had been when it was offered to Vincent as part of his benefits as Mehitabel's secretary. 

The words came out automatically: "You have a nice room." 

Vincent finished fastening the door and quirked a brow at him with a dubious expression.

"I mean," Shannon said, "it seems quite comfortable. Though it doesn't look like you've made it your own much."

"I suppose I'm expecting to be told to leave at any moment," Vincent said. "Even now, my employment hardly feels real. One isn't usually just offered the chance to quit prostitution."

Despite himself, as always, Felix rose and fell in Shannon's mind's eye. He said, after a moment, "Are you enjoying it? Working for Mehitabel."

"I couldn't begin to put it into words," Vincent said ruefully. "I doubt there's anyone in the world who has my loyalty more."

Shannon managed to swallow the question rising to his tongue, _Does your past interfere with relationships? Is that why you keep going cold?_ and maintained at least a little dignity. "She's a wonder. I'm glad Stephen spotted her. I don't think I'd have ever spoken with her otherwise, and my life would have been poorer for it."

"I suppose we both have reasons to be grateful to Lord Stephen," Vincent said after a moment. He gestured to one chair and took the other, pulling it out from the desk. Shannon sat. "She wouldn't need a secretary if she were just an actress either. Well, I imagine she won't need one when he moves on from her or she from him, but by then I'll have enough job experience to find new work, I hope."

How to even respond to that? A dozen offers came to mind, each less likely to be accepted than the next, and Shannon finally managed, with a wan smile, "Well, I can assure you that I'll personally give you a character reference, should it come to that. And I hope that it does not."

Vincent's eyes widened, but he just inclined his head. "Ah," he said. "Then I imagine my future will be set. Thank you."

"At any rate," Shannon said, trying to hurry past the strange feeling in his chest, the chasm between them, "you had a book you wanted to show me?"

Vincent smiled at that, running his fingertips over the cover of the book on the top of the pile. There was something intimate in the gesture, a fond and loving touch, an old familiarity, and the look on his face, directed at the book, was something that Shannon doubted had ever been directed at a human. "You might laugh," Vincent said. "I know the novel is hardly an elevated art form, and stories of adventure less so."

"I promise I will not," Shannon said.

Taking up the slim volume, Vincent weighed it in his hands, as though the contents inside made it heavier than the pages could. "I read this first shortly after I turned ten," Vincent said. "I'd received it as a birthday present. It's one of my few old belongings that has gone everywhere with me, and as a young man, I still found it a bit of a comfort. A youth goes on an adventure, called off the farm by a magical coronet he'd found, which insisted he take it to its owner. So he went only with his farming scythe as a weapon, only to discover that the princess he was to take the coronet to had been deposed by a tyrant prince and needed to be rescued."

"A charming story," Shannon said, smiling, wondering why tyrant princes seemed to be following him everywhere these days.

"Not the sort of story I fell into," Vincent said, "but one that gave me some hope in dark times regardless. The theatre and novels both at least have one thing in common, that they let you live through others' lives for a short while."

Shannon said, looking at the book in Vincent's hand instead of at his face, "It's hard to change your own story. Knowing when to take opportunities and when to pass them by. And, of course, not everyone will have opportunity come around very often."

Vincent said, "Let me pour you a drink."

***

Shannon took the drink in one hand and the book in the other as Vincent handed both over to him, and Vincent was gratified to see that he took the latter with a diffident air. It felt silly, absurd, to care so much about an old adventure story, but Shannon hadn't treated it as absurd in the slightest.

Vincent found himself embarrassed to think that Shannon _might_. The novel, as he'd said, was not particularly a high-brow form, was often dismissed as the purview of women's interests and so on. But Shannon had never treated anything as more or less than it was presented to be. Even if he suspected that Shannon was only entertaining this because it was something Vincent cared about, he wondered if that wasn't, in its own way, something valuable and rare.

It was at least new.

He poured himself a drink as well, and sat again in his chair. "I don't imagine it will take you long to read, but I'm... sure that I can find you another if you like this one. There are sequels as well. Ah, and if you don't..." Vincent wondered if he'd be able to feel the same way about Shannon if he didn't, even though he knew that was unfair. "If you don't, no harm done. Not everyone likes the same things."

"I'll read it with an open heart," Shannon said, smiling. "I can promise you that, at least. Knowing that it gave you some relief through hard times is already enough that I want to swear friendship to it."

He had that look on his face again, the slightly heavy-lidded glance, curved lips, slight slouch that made him look shyly seductive. Vincent, unable to be unaware of these things, took a sip of his drink. "I appreciate that," he said.

Silence fell between them briefly, and Shannon straightened a little, putting the book into his pocket, and said, "So, do you know if Mehitabel is going after Elemena after all? Just between you and me."

Vincent relaxed a little at the change of both subject and tone. "Just between you and me," he said, "she told me that Jean-Soleil folded and it'll be next up."

"I'm so glad," Shannon said beaming. "I hope that my suggestion goes well for her instead of—well—I wouldn't like to negatively impact her career."

"I'm sure she'll make Elemena shine," Vincent said dryly, "but even if not, one poor play wouldn't ruin an actress of her quality. She's doubtless had her share of failures before."

"Such is art," Shannon said. He leaned forward a little, cupping his drink in both hands, and said, "I would like to take you to it when it opens." 

Vincent could feel himself freeze, tried to keep breathing. "I..." He exhaled slowly. "Surely not in your booth."

"I was... hoping so, yes," Shannon said. He didn't seem able to look at Vincent's face, stared into the drink instead. "I would value your company."

Time seemed to slow as Vincent tried to figure out how to respond. He could feel the seconds looming past as he watched Shannon watching his drink. Finally, he drew a breath and time resumed its normal pace. "I'm sorry," he said. "But if I go to the theatre as your date—if I do anything as your date—people will believe I'm your catamite."

Shannon looked back at him again, expression earnest. "I don't care what they say," he said. "People will always talk. As if that would be the least of it, with my parentage. They say all kinds of things about me all the time, but I'd rather... I'd rather just date who I like when I want to and not care what they think... about me..."

He trailed off slowly and Vincent knew his reaction was showing on his face. He scrubbed at it with both hands. "You think this is about _you_?" he asked incredulously.

"I—"

"Powers and Saints, Shannon." He didn't bother with the title, let it slip by as if they really were equals, as if it really wouldn't matter who was seen with who. "Of course you don't care, you're highborn. They'd see you with me and assume you were slumming. Like I said, that I'd become your catamite. Nobles do it all the time; nobody thought anything of it when Lord Ivo brought me along, did they? They wouldn't think you were _serious_ , but nobody would care you were accompanied by a prostitute. I wouldn't be your date or even your lover in their eyes, but you wouldn't be lessened for it."

Shannon's face had gone tight and pinched, lips pale, eyes strained. "You're talking about yourself, then."

"I'm tired of it," Vincent groaned into his hands, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes until he saw stars instead of darkness. "I'm tired of being this. I told Mehitabel, you know, that I'd gladly cut off my sex and join a convent. In the cloisters, I could give up my name, my identity, and certainly nobody would be expecting me to fuck them. I'm done with sex, perhaps entirely. I've never had it because I wanted it, only because it paid the bills; some prostitutes are interested in bringing work home as pleasure, but not me. Not me. I'm exhausted with being introduced as Messire Demabrien, and having 'the whore' added in silent, knowing glances. If we were just two men, I could accompany you to the theatre and we'd largely be ignored, but anyone who looks at your booth will believe I am there as your plaything, and I simply can't. I cannot."

He didn't look up, didn't want to see how Shannon was looking at him. Shannon said, "It doesn't matter what you do. They'll think that of you anyway."

"Ah," Vincent said bitterly.

"I'm sorry," Shannon said, and he sounded it, hurt and tentative rather than trying to pick a fight. "But that's what the Mirador is. Maybe that's how people are everywhere, I don't know. But once they've decided that you are all you can be, that's all they see. You know what they call me?"

"The Golden Whelp. It's not the same—"

"Only because they've decided the shame I should carry on my back is treason," Shannon said. "You know why I started dominating the gossip at court? I was tired of being the subject of bets on how old I'd be before they'd have to burn me."

That made Vincent look up, finally. There was an old pain in Shannon's voice, but none on his face, his expression self-mocking and dismissive. "Shannon—" Vincent began, uncertain.

Shannon spread his hands and shrugged. "They'll never not see my mother's son," he said. "I'll always be the Golden Bitch's get. I'll enjoy simple pleasures but I don't have any goals. No ambitions. There's nothing for me to want because if I try to reach out for anything important, they'll see a risk. And I can't become someone they want to in the Protector's seat; I have to be flighty and senseless but still enough my own man that they don't think they can use me. And even with all that, _you_ know what kind of plots there's been."

"So you'll never stop being the whelp and I'll never stop being a whore," Vincent said. "Is that what you mean?"

It hadn't looked like there'd been a fight in Shannon, but despite that, some spark went out in him. "No," he said. "For you, that'll only last as long as you're here. Eventually you'll leave and get more work as a secretary and a scribe. You can go somewhere that they won't know otherwise. It may follow you anyway. Felix taught me that much. But you do have a chance."

And Shannon didn't. He had the thoughtfulness not to _say_ that much to Vincent, at least, but as the Lord Protector's brother he wasn't going to get that sort of opportunity. Vincent said, carefully, "I'm not very interested in going somewhere I have no friends, not now that I've found some. Though perhaps one day I'll get that tired."

Shannon smiled wanly. "I hope you at least count me as that."

"I'm loaning you a book, aren't I?" Vincent said softly. And then, before he could doubt himself into silence, "I'll think about it."

"What...?"

"The theatre. I would like to sit with you," Vincent said. "As your date or your friend, but I don't know that I'll be able to."

Shannon searched his face, then looked down again. He put his glass on the table half-empty and rose, touching the book in his jacket. "Well, I won't mind whatever you decide," he said quietly. "But if it makes you feel any better, I'd talk my brother into coming with us to the booth. He'd want to see Mehitabel perform anyway. And he might bring Enid if so. Then it wouldn't be... it would at least be more social than a date."

"I'll think about it," Vincent said again. And then, because Shannon was obviously tired, was obviously wanting to go and withdraw and recover from that awful vulnerability he'd shown in the face of Vincent's worse vulnerability, he rose to see Shannon to the door. "Goodnight, Shannon. I hope you'll tell me if you enjoy the book."

"Of course," Shannon said. He smiled at him in a sad way. "Goodnight, Vincent. Thank you for loaning it to me."

He left. Vincent stood by the closed door for a long moment, not quite sure how to feel, bitter and embarrassed, then went to pick up Shannon's glass. It was still cold, and he contemplated the whiskey, then raised the glass, putting his mouth to where Shannon's had been.

It didn't feel like anything but a glass, and the whiskey didn't taste like anything but whiskey. He downed it all anyway.

***

Jasper walked Shannon back to his rooms in silence, clearly reading Shannon's mood. Shannon drew a breath when they got there, and forced a smile at his door. "I won't be needing you tonight, Jasper. You have yourself a nice evening."

Jasper smiled back. "Yourself as well, my lord."

"Don't I always?" Shannon asked airily, and let himself inside.

The door closed behind him with a click and he leaned against it for a long moment, breathing unevenly. His chest felt tight and sore, each swallow hurting his throat a little. 

It had been one hell of a thing to put into words.

The room was cold, and he went about starting a fire for himself, unbraiding his hair, glad for once to be alone. He didn't _feel_ alone, though; he felt like he could feel the judging eyes of the entire Mirador on his back, longing for him to finally be ambitious, to finally try to seize power, to finally live out his destiny, so they could all be proven right about him.

The fire flickered as he fed it kindling; he shivered in the cold that the heat from the flames only seemed to be making worse. He thought again of the ghost he couldn't see, and wondered what Vincent would be seeing and hearing if he were here right now. "Get out," he muttered. 

He heard the tears in his voice and the sound pushed him over the edge. Suddenly, it was all too much. He couldn't blame Vincent for wanting to do anything he could to avoid the expectations of others turning into a reality; he'd do the same. _Had_ been doing the same. It felt like he was betraying himself, but that was only fair, he thought. Better to betray himself than his brother. He'd already experienced what it was like to betray another person when he hurt Felix, so long ago, and it felt like he'd never recovered from it.

Sobbing, Shannon began to yell into his hands. "Go away! You don't belong here. Whatever you're expecting of me, you have to give up on it! I can only be me. I can't do anything more! I'm not ambitious, there isn't anything I want!"

Silence. The flames crackled.

And then, louder, "That's a lie, that's a _lie_! I do want something, I want to be happy! Is that an ambition? To want to do something, anything, to make myself happy!? It's not your dream, whatever it is, it's not your expectation, it's not whatever pattern makes you up that you want to put on me, so go away! I don't care where! Move on, go to sleep, find some other poor bastard to watch but leave me alone! I'm not _yours_!"

The absurdity of this, sobbing into his hands and screaming at the air, as if there were somebody really there instead of just the past coming back to haunt him, finally sunk in, and he began swearing softly into his hands. He felt distantly grateful that he was alone for this, that the only person who even _could_ see this was a ghost. If a spirit was judging him, at least he'd never know about it.

The tears kept coming, though.

***

"Well, we've started rehearsing," Mehitabel told Vincent merrily. 

She was in quite a good mood lately, Vincent had noticed, and while some of it was likely a new project, it was still rather striking. She hadn't volunteered a reason, however, so he didn't ask, just smiling back at her. "It's official, then?"

"Very. Jean-Soleil is having the announcement put out in the broadsheets," Mehitabel said. "We're aiming to open next month, on the tenth."

Giving them around three weeks of rehearsal. It felt like a tight timeline, but, he reminded himself, they'd probably already begun when Mehitabel first suggested it, testing out what kind of fit it would be. His heart began to go too fast, anxiety striking up a pattern in his chest. "I see," he said, maintaining his smile. "I'll look forward to it."

"I hope so, since you talked me into it, sweetheart," Mehitabel said, and winked. "I've a date tonight, so you can take an early night of it if you like."

"If you're sure. There isn't much mail today anyway."

"See? Perfect timing."

He finished up his last few tasks as she did her hair and makeup, humming to herself, then he wished her a good afternoon and went back to his rooms. As he entered, his foot slipped on a card; someone had slid it under his door while he was out. He picked it up, heart fluttering the more when he realized it was from Shannon.

It had only been four days since they'd talked last, and he felt as unbalanced about the whole thing as if it had been four minutes. For a moment, he couldn't bring himself to turn the card over to read it, before he began to get annoyed and embarrassed by how anxious he was being. 

He turned it over.

_Vincent—_  
Thank you for the loan of the book. I've read it three times already and I'm partway through a fourth. It absolutely was engaging and lovely and you said something about sequels?  
S. 

Vincent stared at the note for a few long moments, almost not able to make sense of it, not with the weight of the last conversation they'd had. 

But the meaning was plain, and there was nothing else to read into it.

***

Shannon waited anxiously for the note he was sure Vincent would send in return. Jasper had come back with no response—Vincent had already been out when he'd gone—but even so, he couldn't imagine Vincent would delay on at least sending a note back once he was off work. 

It was still far too early in the afternoon for an expected response when a knock came to his door, and when Jasper came to Shannon's bedroom and told him, "Vincent Demabrien is here to see you," Shannon jumped upright more out of shock than anything else.

"Don't _laugh_ ," he told Jasper, who wasn't doing anything of the kind but _was_ looking suspiciously mirthful. "Tell him I'll be right out."

"Of course," Jasper said, bowing with his eyes glittering. He headed back into the main room.

Shannon exhaled, then splashed himself with water from his bureau, washing and drying his face and taking the opportunity to calm down, embarrassed. It felt like if he showed how flustered he was, how excited, he'd seen like even more of a child to Vincent.

A little refreshed, he quickly queued his hair and gave himself a quick smile in the mirror. _Much better_. He grabbed the book, marked with a slip of paper in his spot near the end, and went out.

"Vincent," he said delightedly, hoping his voice didn't sound pinched with the tension he was feeling, "you're off work early! I hadn't expected you. I'd been hoping to finish the book one last time—" 

Vincent blinked, then laughed. The sound was soft but genuine, fading into a warm smile. "I understand that feeling," he said. "You look like you're nearly done; why don't you finish it up while I sit here?"

"And leave you to watch me?"

"I understand you're not so unpleasant to watch," Vincent said.

Now he _knew _his voice was doing something strange. "If it's no trouble," he said. "Would you like some coffee perhaps?"__

__"I would. Thank you."_ _

__"Jasper, if you please."_ _

__Jasper bowed and headed out, and Shannon settled in his armchair, glancing at Vincent a couple of times to confirm it really was all right. But Vincent just gestured at him to go on, not staring at him but looking around the room with a curious air._ _

__It didn't take much to get lost in the rhythm of the prose again. Shannon hardly noticed as Jasper brought the coffee, or when he left the room again. He'd read it enough times in the last few days that he practically knew the words by heart, but new things kept jumping out at him regardless: A significant look mentioned earlier duplicated at the end, the princess taking her coronet and the scythe from the fallen hero and taking her throne back from the villain herself, then nursing the hero back to health and promising him anything. The story ended before he chose what he'd ask for, but the way they were holding each other's gaze seemed to imply that it would be _her_._ _

__Shannon closed the book. "I like," he said, "the way the unanswered promise of _anything_ is paralleled with his wish at the start for _something_ more than the life of following in his father's footsteps."_ _

__Vincent lit up. "I always thought so as well," he said. "He's gone from lacking opportunity to having _every_ opportunity at his fingertips. I brought the first sequel with me—I don't own the later ones right now, but—" _ _

__"Well, they can be acquired," Shannon said. He thought briefly of Felix, of how happy Felix was in bookstores, and felt a brief pang of guilt. He'd always thought it was stupid to see a grown man so excited to read anything, let alone his boring scholarly texts. He'd never realized what it may have meant to him, to someone who, like Vincent, had lacked freedom. But he'd never known that about Felix; he could only judge himself so far when Felix had kept so much hidden. He shook himself and smiled at Vincent again. "I'm interested to see how it goes on from there. Even with the open ending, the story felt complete."_ _

__"I won't give anything away," Vincent said. He leaned forward, handing the new book over, taking the first one back. His fingers caressed it again, like lovers holding each other's hands. "I'm glad you enjoyed it so much."_ _

__"It was easy to enjoy," Shannon said. He searched for something to add, more to say about it; he'd had so many thoughts while reading it, but found his mind going blank, watching Vincent's slender fingers touch the cover. "It..."_ _

__Vincent interrupted. "Mehitabel says the play is officially scheduled now."_ _

__It took Shannon a moment to catch up. "The—oh, _Nemetorius_?"_ _

__"It should open on the tenth of next month." Vincent drew a slow breath in. "I'll attend with you, if you still want to."_ _

__He could feel the flutter of his heart in his throat. "Oh. Yes. I would like that very much."_ _

__"But—"_ _

__"I'll talk to my brother," Shannon blurted. "I'm sure he'd want to come see Tabby on opening night anyway."_ _

__Vincent colored a little, nodded. "I'd like that. Yes. Thank you. That wasn't what I was going to say, though."_ _

__"Oh?" Shannon folded his fingers together over the cover on the new book. This one was thicker, he noticed inanely._ _

__Clearing his throat, Vincent said, "You're right. I can't control what anyone thinks about me. All I can do is act the way I want to and do the things I want to. I do want to _reduce_ the things they might think, so thank you kindly for the offer to make sure that we are not unaccompanied in your box, but there's no escaping it entirely and I just need to accept that. And I would... not object to... to spending more time with you. But I can't... I don't want..."_ _

__He trailed off miserably, but the look he cast Shannon, anxious and guilty and embarrassed, was clear._ _

__"You said," Shannon said for him, mouth dry. "That you didn't want sex any more."_ _

__"No," Vincent muttered. "I don't. And you're known for enjoying it."_ _

__He was well aware that _that_ was one of the rumors around him; he'd barely ever been without a beau, moving from Felix to one person and another and another. And he'd received a reputation as a pleasure hound in the wake of the reveal of Felix's past, as well; that he'd had a professional as his full-time lover. Not to mention the strange views people had of ganumedes individuals regardless._ _

__At any rate, they weren't wrong. "I do like it," Shannon said, red-cheeked. "Nothing wrong with that."_ _

__"Certainly not," Vincent said. He lifted his chin a little. "I am _capable_ , but only under certain circumstances, and you don't strike me as a martyr."_ _

__The term struck home, and detailed realizations of what Vincent's work entailed beyond just sex along with it. He kept his back straight and his chin up as well, but felt his flush deepen more. At this rate, he was probably flushed down to his shoulders, he thought mournfully._ _

__He drew a deep breath in and let it out before responding. "I don't think I am, no," he said. "I haven't tried it, and I'd be willing for you, but honestly it's not worth exploring if it's about what you're physically _able_ to do rather than what you _want_ to do."_ _

__"But—" Vincent began, eyes dropping. "You want me."_ _

__"I like you," Shannon said. "I'd like to date you. Usually that involves sex, but honestly, if it doesn't bother you that I do so, I can get sex _anywhere_. I can't get Vincent Demabrien anywhere, though."_ _

__Vincent's gaze shot up again and held his, shocked and with a spark in them that Shannon thought—wished—might be hope. "Oh," he said. "No. It doesn't bother me."_ _

__"I'd like," Shannon said. "To go out with you anyway. I don't know if we can make it work but if we don't try, nothing will happen, right?"_ _

__"No," Vincent said, so softly that it was almost a whisper. "Not trying just means we don't have anything."_ _

__Shannon felt tension rush out of him. The force of it weakened him; he sank back into his chair, limbs a puddle, chest humming. It felt a bit like he'd just survived some sort of wreckage. "Then," he said, "if you're amenable, will you go out with me?"_ _

__Even with that all said, Vincent hesitated, but after the moment's pause he smiled helplessly and said, "Yes. At least for now."_ _

__"Excellent," Shannon said. "Brilliant. Normally I'd kiss you now but if you want to just talk about the book some more I'm game."_ _

__That earned a startled smile from Vincent. "We can discuss kissing later," he said. "The book, yes. Though, ah, just one thing first—not to change the subject—"_ _

__"Change away," Shannon said. The sense of anxiety was abating and elation was rushing in to take its place; he knew he sounded giddy but couldn't seem to scrub the tone from his voice. "What is it?"_ _

__"No, just—how did you get rid of your ghost?" Vincent asked. He gestured to the corner where he'd previously been watching it. "I haven't seen it at all today."_ _

__"Oh," Shannon said. "Is he gone?"_ _

__And despite himself, he started to laugh. Vincent was looking at him with startlement, and he knew he had to find a way to explain soon. What he'd done, what he'd said, how much he'd wanted to cut free from the past and judgments and expectations and make his own path, how little his ambitions were. But he couldn't find the words now, and couldn't find the _air_ now, laughing until tears sprung to his eyes, absurdly happy._ _


End file.
